


Space For Two

by ServantOfMischief



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Fluff, Holding Hands, M/M, Quote: You can stay at my place (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Tired Crowley (Good Omens), exhausted Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27366541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ServantOfMischief/pseuds/ServantOfMischief
Summary: The bus drive on the eve of the Apoccannot, Crowley and Aziraphale are exhausted. And who wouldn't be, after flailing around for days and panicking and then not doing anything during the actual event in which they plotted to stop?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 76





	Space For Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pinkpiggy93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkpiggy93/gifts).



> This is for Pinkpiggy93, who deserves all the love I can muster in me.

The bus drive is quiet. Crowley is sitting in his seat, at a loss for words, only feeling the sensation of Aziraphale’s warm hand upon his own. Six thousand years with a wall between them, because Aziraphale needed it, and suddenly Aziraphale is the one breaking through the wall, reducing it to rubble by merely grabbing hold of Crowley’s hand and _it is so warm._ It is so bloody warm and it makes him feel warm too and he wants to move closer but he is so afraid that if he does, Aziraphale will be spooked, or realize what he is doing, and drop the demon’s hand and Crowley don’t think he’ll survive that right now. He’s too worn down, exhausted by the emotional loss of his beloved Bentley, the overuse of his powers, standing up to Beelzebub, Gabriel and Satan, practically giving God the finger (unless this is what She planned all along, which makes him want to just give the finger to the sky from the bus if he had any energy left in him), and he just wants to get back to his flat, however sterile and un-homey it feels.

Is that even a word? Un-homey? It is now, Crowley decides.

And then he silently panics, as the bus stops and Aziraphale stands, still holding his hand and pulling him along. The bookshop has always been homey, warm and cosy and that’s where he always came to see Aziraphale. The only good thing about his own flat is his plant room, his beautiful verdant plants (who better not have any bloody spots on them when he comes back), but there is not an ounce of comfort or clutter there (if you disregard the melted pile of demon goo on the floor).

And Aziraphale is all about comfort and clutter. As they stand in the elevator (still holdings hands!), Crowley feel the panic rise to even higher levels. Aziraphale will hate it, he will hate it, he will hate it, he will let go and leave and there is-

_Ding_

The sound of the elevator reaching the penthouse floor sounds like an ominous bell to Crowley, but his traitorous legs lead him forward and he wants to hiss at them but that will just be ridiculous, won’t it? The door swings open and they walk through, and Crowley, as he leads Aziraphale inside, waits for the shoe to drop, for the angel to take one look around and think: No.

But it never happens. Aziraphale looks around, then gives Crowley a small smile.

“Show me around?” So Crowley does, taking Aziraphale to the only room worth anything in the entire flat, and what else can a demon do than draw his thumb across his throat, scowling at the plants from behind Aziraphale as he praises them. They shake and Aziraphale tilts his head.

“Oh dear, did I scare them?”

“Nah.” Crowley shrugs as his tongue flicks out. This is not even close to the amount of fear he wants to smell from them, but it’ll do for now. He’s too tired to anything but give them a warning glare from behind his shades. His corporation feels heavy and he feels like sleeping for a century. He would too, if he had a century. One look at Aziraphale, and he realizes that the angel too, for the first time in the six thousand years Crowley has known him, looks like he’s about to drop dead on his feet. The lines around his eyes are deep and dark, his hair usually so fluffy and curly, rest flat against his head, and his shoulders are slumped forward. He is exhausted, and Crowley glances towards the hall leading to the way to his bedroom, and he thinks about the bed he acquired back in 1967. It’s a gamble, isn’t it? But they have no time left to grumble about anything before Heaven and Hell comes for them.

Crowley’s got very little to lose, as everything is already, most likely, gone.

“Could sleep, if you want?” He says and Aziraphale looks at him.

“I haven’t slept for a single moment since my existence began.” And don’t Crowley know it, but Aziraphale looks like he’s barely standing, so he takes Aziraphale’s hand in his, elated that the angel doesn’t reject the motion, and tugs him along.

“Now time like the present to learn. Just a nap, at the very least, you look like you’re about to fall over.” Aziraphale seems to be out of energy as well, as Crowley knows that normally a comment like that would have the angel at the very least huffing at him. Instead, he lets himself be led down the hall and to the door.

If Aziraphale felt even remotely like himself, he would have argued, but he is tired of arguing, tired of denying himself, tired of listing off all the things he is allowed and not allowed to do, tired of saying that Crowley is the enemy when he is the only one who isn’t, tired of arguing that going into a demon’s bedroom is like admitting to sin (like he hasn’t lain with humans already), and then he pauses when he sees the bed in the room.

Or rather, the bunkbed.

Aziraphale had expected a den of a giant bed and silk blankets and pillows, and, well, he is half right. The bed on the bottom has what appears to be silk sheets and pillowcases, and it’s a mess beyond belief, like it is being frequently used. The bed at the top, on the other hand… Tartan covered sheets and pillows, cosy and inviting, made perfectly. It has never been used before, but it is so obvious who it is intended for. Crowley isn’t leading him into iniquity, he is giving him a safe space to relax, and oh how the thought brings tears to his eyes. He blinks them away quickly before the demon can notice.

“Just a nap, angel.” Crowley says, slumping forward, appearing just as exhausted as Aziraphale feels too. “No one can reach us here, I promise.” So Aziraphale climbs the ladder and wiggles beneath the sheets, and _oh_ , how comfortable and warm it is, how soft the pillow he has laid his head down on is. Aziraphale thinks then that this is the most comfortable he has felt in a long, long while. Crowley collapses into the bed beneath him, too tired to miracle away his clothes, let alone wiggle out of them, and heaves a sigh at the comfortable feeling of laying down in his own bed.

There is still a restlessness though, and Aziraphale twists and turns a bit, until Crowley calls out.

“Aziraphale?” And the angel looks over the edge of the bed, sees the demon look up at him, eyes vulnerable and worried and all tension leaves the angel as he reaches down and holds his hand out in offering. The demon takes it, feels the angel squeeze and hold tight.

“Our side.” The angel says, and the corner of the demon’s lips wobble upwards.

“Our side.” He confirms.


End file.
